Skybrush
by lilxmzxit
Summary: The tale of the fox Zorriah Skybrush, whose adoptive otter parents are murdered by in cold blood by a vermin warlord. Zorriah swears vengeance but is she ready to face the killer? In the process of being revamped, edited and organized. Please R&R.
1. Prologue

It was cold. The winter winds wailed across the ivory landscape, howling the dirge of a lost soul as they tore at the forms of two cloaked travelers struggling against the gale-force currents of frigid air. Both figures stumbled panting into a sheltered copse of pines and evergreens, the natural canopy spreading a blanket of lightly snow-dusted pine needles underpaw. One of the wanderers, the taller of the two, shed its forest green cloak, revealing himself to be a muscular fox with a russet pelt so dark at points it was nearly black. Helping his mate remove her cloak, he smiled slightly as she looked up at him with golden hazel eyes, but the expression darkened faintly as a sound reached his alert ears.

A shrill whimpering wound its way into the frozen air, joined a moment later by the keening wail of a second tiny voice.

"Zhira. Keep them quiet," he snapped, voice brusque. Then his tone softened, concern creeping into his naturally rough voice. "They might still be followin' us."

The vixen nodded wordlessly, glancing down to her breast where two young fox kits were nestled in her strong arms. One, a male, was black as night and the other, a she-pup, white as new-fallen snow.

"Hush, shh. Hush noo." She crooned quietly, hard voice of a seasoned mercenary softened by mother-love. Both their voices held a slight, but discernible, Northern brogue. The kits peered up at her, their cries silenced by the soothing familiarity of their mother's voice, then both curled up against each other and drifted off to sleep. The she-fox smiled, the hard lines of her face softening for an instant. Her kits were miracles: rarest of the rare, throwbacks of her far Northern ancestors and her mate's from across the Western Sea.

"It's time we _all _settled down, Varial. But I'll keep watch this time. Ye've done enough fer us." The quiet insistence in her tone gave him no choice. He merely nodded and settled quickly into a ball, both kits sleeping soundly in the curve of his warm body. And the vixen kept watch.

Midnight passed the copse without incident, and the blizzard had long since ended, leaving a tense quiet in its place. In the silence of the night, a twig snapped somewhere in the shadows and the vixen sprang to attention, every muscle in her body quivering. The moonlight lit her ginger pelt with an eerie blue sheen as she stood attentively. A quiet whir reached her ears and the vixen's paws twitched, sending her twisting away like a leaf on an autumn breeze.

_Thunk!_

A dagger landed with a dull thud, up to its hilt in the pine-wood, where the vixen's head had rested a moment before. Wrenching the dagger from the trunk, the fox slipped soundlessly into the dark, creeping like a shadow, the dagger in paw. Sharp eyes caught sight of two hunched figures and the dagger zipped from her paw like lightning, burying itself into the back of a ferret's neck and he slumped to the ground noiselessly. The second beast turned, his coarse vermin accent reaching her ears, "_Slipp_. Hoy, mud-brain - Wot'd I tell yer bout sleepin' while we're supposed ter be watchin' for them foxes! Git up or Blacktooth'll give yer dirty hide a – " his words caught in his throat. Looking his fallen companion over, he swore, then straightened and blew a bone whistle about his neck that gave out a call like a nightbird. The vixen stood stock still in the shadows. Five other vermin joined him and he nodded and pointed a paw towards the darkness in which she stood. She knew they had found her and cursed mentally, turning and darting away while she had the chance.

Determination sparkled in her eyes as she stole to her mate's side and woke him. He sat up without a sound, assassin to the core, half of the crack killing machine that was he and his mate. The big dog fox was long accustomed to being woken at the blackest of hours for the blackest of work.

"They're here, Varial." No emotion in her voice, simply cold fact. It was their way.

His sky blue eyes flickered to her hazel ones and saw something her beautiful pools he had never seen before. Fear. He stood quickly, all thoughts of sleep shaken from him. A curved scimitar with a hilt of ivory-ornamented black wood sprang to his big paw with the hiss of cold steel as the caped vermin advance on the pair. Beside him, his mate drew a shining dirk, pearls set in its polished oak wood handle. Motherhood had not affected her slim, muscular form.

"The kits come first, Zhira, m'love." He murmured and though she said no word in reply, the fire in her eyes told him she had heard and that she loved him too. The six soldiers surrounded the two foxes and for a moment the tension hung palpably in the chill air, the female hanging back to protect her kits. Then with the scream of steel on steel, they clashed. The dog-fox became a thunderbolt of mahogany fire: dropping the first attacker before he could move to parry and drawing the blade from its newly slain sheath of vermin flesh. He turned, a growl rumbling low in his throat as the remaining five surrounded him. His blade whirled; a wind-milling blur of death, but the numbers proved too much. The dog fox fell, a deadly fighter to the last, fangs locked forever on the throat of a futilely struggling rat.

A cry of pain at the sight of her fallen mate drew the attention of the four vermin to the vixen. Sinking to a fighter's crouch, blade glittering in the moonlight, the vixen's hackles raised in a snarl. There was death in her eyes as she prepared to defend her kits with her life. Four: a ferret, a pine marten, a rat, and a stoat advanced upon her, daggers and knives in paw.

"Come t' me, ye murderers…" she hissed under her breath, cold fury in her voice as they charged. The stoat was the first to die, staring in disbelief at the hilt of the dirk protruding from his gut before the vixen flung him away, bowling over two of his companions with the carcass. The ferret and the rat launched themselves at her and the trio began to brawl fiercely, weapons knocked from paws as they rolled about on the blood-soaked snow. Though the two attackers had her outnumbered, mother love again worked miracles on the wily vixen It made her a chestnut fireball who clawed at them viciously, tore at their flesh with pearl fangs, bruised them with wild blows until she managed, serendipitously to grasp her fallen dagger. A ragged voice cuts the fray, desperate. It was the ferret's.

"Hellsteeth, Red, she's a madbeast! Let 'er 'ave it. _Now, damn the Fates, Redscore, __**now**__!_"

The twang of a bowstring was heard, and the vixen gasped, stumbled, staring speechless for a moment at the black feathered arrow jutting from her chest. Throwing a desperate glance back towards her kits, her face became a mask of raging ferocity.

"_**Do not…touch them!" **_she snarled, leaping with an unearthly last reserve strength at the rat, who gave a despairing shriek as her dirk slashed wide his throat, silencing him forever. As she struggled to stand, crimson blood spurting from her breast, there came another twang and a second feathered deaths-head buried itself in her back, then another in her side. Blood staining her chestnut fur dark, she stumbled two paces towards the ferret, then collapsed, blood pouring from her wounds, dirk clenched in her paw, and savagery imprinted upon every line of her dangerously beautiful face as her hazel eyes misted and closed for eternity.

The pine marten stepped gingerly over the body of the slain vixen, pacing forward quickly towards his one remaining compatriot as if wary that the vixen might, even in death, spring at him.

"Cor! That 'un was mad." Stated the bruised and bleeding ferret with a shudder. "Why'd ya wait so long? I coulda died, Red!" he demanded, an indignant tone in his whining voice.

Redscore did not answer, cold gray eyes searching the snow.

"Let's get what we came for, Bloodwort." The marten said shortly, eyes settling on a moving spot of black on the stark white of the winter landscape nearby. "Varial's son."

"Wot was that crazy vix screamin' 'bout? 'Don't touch _them_.'" Queried Bloodwort. "There's only one. There only ever woz one." He bent to grab the toddling black kit roughly by the scruff of his neck and yelped in pain. "Blighter bit me!" he said, outraged, aiming a kick at the pup.

"Bloodwort!" barked the pine marten and the ferret shrank back. Red approached the kit, bent down and spoke to him. "You want to be a fighter like your father." He said, making it clear that it was not a question. "Then you'll come without a fight." He reached down and hefted the black fox cub by the scruff of his neck and this time the only protests were muted growls. Redscore grunted in satisfaction before tying the wee one's paws and plopping him unceremoniously in a woven basket held by Bloodwort. He bent to unbuckle the black leather sword belt from the slain dog fox and retrieved the magnificent scimitar from the snow, wiping the blood from the blade before wedding it to the scabbard. Then the two caped vermin melted into the silence of the night, carrying the black fox tod with them, while the forgotten white she-kit lay huddled in the snow.


	2. The Promise

**Disclaimer: **_As much as I love Brian Jacques, I do not own his work in any way shape or form. My writings are just flattery and attempts to come close to his mad skills at writing. If any names, situations, etc. are in resemblance to personal real life situations or people you know, that's completely accidental and you can beat me over the head for it if that really upsets you so much._

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_Thwack!_

The sound of wood against wood rang out sharply through the wooded hollow north of Mossflower wood. In a small clearing lined by stones, the figures of an otter and fox could be seen, combating fiercely with quarterstaffs. The otter, an older male, brawny and silver-brown, parried the fox's attacks with the sturdy bamboo pole, riposting with expert maneuvers of his own. Despite his burly physique, he moved with the grace of a warrior. His opponent was a young vixen, slim and muscular, with sapphire blue eyes and a snow white pelt. Though she was certainly holding her own, countering the otter's strikes with lightning quick reflexes and skill, she was clearly the less experienced of the two. Her exotic features were concentrated, her large eyes tense and glittering. The otter's attacks pushed her closer to the ring of stones and her paw clipped one slightly. She turned her gaze for an instant to sight the rock, and with a complex twisting motion, the otter's quarterstaff swept the vixen's footpaws out from beneath her, sending her sprawling. The two froze for a moment as he held the end of the quarterstaff at her throat, their eyes locked in what appeared to be a silent battle of wills. Finally, a grin tickled the otter's craggy features and he extended a paw to the ivory fox maid.

"Don't y'look so shocked, missy." He chuckled as she glared at him and ignored the proffered paw, springing quickly to her feet, reclaiming her quarterstaff, and brushing off her snowy fur. Her intense glare continued for a moment longer before a sparkle entered her blue eyes and she smiled a little.

"Ye let your guard down." he said.

"I _tried_, Uncle Rock." She protested. "I concentrated, just like ye told me tae…" she trailed off, silence taking her slight Northerner's lilt, which became more pronounced when any emotion of hers grew strong. Her blue eyes were uncomprehending.

"Aye, but yer **too** focused on **yerself**. A warrior's _whole world_ is their weapon; their tool: use it! Don't ever ferget the rest o' the world just because yore fighting. Because the rest of the world won't forget ye, and _that's_ how ye get hurt. Concentrate, but ye **must be on yore guard**." He instructed her, wagging the quarterstaff like a sergeant's pace stick to punctuate his final piece of advice.

"But why?" she asked, though almost fully mature, her tone still held the hint of a kit's outspoken innocence. "Shouldn't I be concentrating on myself an' my opponent instead of being distracted?" she queried, confusion flickering in her brilliant eyes.

Rock sighed, brushing up dust with his footpaw as he contemplated his answer. Finally, he looked up, meeting her bewildered gaze.

"Zorriah…ye've always known ye weren't an otter," they shared a smile at the obviousness of the statement. He paused, rubbing his whiskery chin meditatively. "Ye've known that from the moment we found ye that winter mornin' in the clearing that ye were a fox. And foxes…foxes are,"

"vermin." She finished, her voice quiet. He nodded wordlessly in resigned affirmation.

"An' almost all foxes are like almost all vermin. Evil. They don' have what we do: they don't have no honor, no heart, no compassion. If lying gets 'em wot they want, then they _will_ lie. And if cheatin' will help 'em win, then they _will_ cheat. Fightin' one of them is not like sparrin' with me, they'd likely use any means t' win, down t' something as low as throwing dirt in yore face, which is why ye **must** be aware of yore surroundings." He explained, then seeing her expression, put a tattooed arm comfortingly around her slender shoulders. "But _you_ don't have ter be like that. _I_ don't. Everyone has the capacity t' be evil, just as everyone has the capacity t' be good. Fer most vermin, it is written into their very blood, their very nature, t' be cruel an' evil. And if that instinct for good is there it gets stomped into the mud by the other vermin they know. It gets beat out of 'em 'cause a vermin with a conscience don't survive 'round other vermin very long. But ye're different. Ye were born with that kind heart and all yer life ye've helped it grow. _Ye are who yeh've chosen t' be_. Because yer strong. And the Zorriah Skybrush I know is good: I love her no matter what."

Stopping and turning to her, he tossed the pole from one callused paw to the other and grinned. "Now, are ye ready t' go at it again? En garde, missy."

Zorriah smiled back, her azure eyes clear and sparkling as she shifted into a crouch, her quarterstaff at the ready.

"Rock! Zorriah! You two plannin' on stayin' out there all season, 'cause I've got a pot o' 'otroot soup's ready. An' I'm not 'bout t' let it go cold." The figure of a plump female otter appeared in the doorway of the thatched cottage at the edge of the clearing, a formidably sized wooden ladle grasped in one paw.

"Comin', Mem, me beauty!" called Rock over his shoulder, taking Zorriah's quarterstaff from her and tossing it by the side of the makeshift arena. As they entered the house, he swept the little rotund otter off her feet, lifting her into the air and twirling her about. "We're here Mem, we're here!" he said, grinning good naturedly as she rapped him on the head with the stout ladle and tried to hide the smile that threatened to make its way across her face.

"Rock Brookside, put me down this instant, ye great riverdog, or the all the soup goes out the window!"

He placed her on a stool, an expression of mock hurt on his face.

"Aww, but Mem…."

"Don't _'but Mem'_ me, Rock. Yore more trouble n' a basket ' bees." she said sternly as she could manage, then turned on Zorriah, who had a paw clapped to her mouth to keep from laughing.

"And you! Yore no better, missy! Don't tell me he's been filling yer pretty head with his warrior nonsense."

"I'm afraid he has Aunt Memma Brookside." Replied Zorriah, with mock chagrin, shaking her head ruefully, a smile hovering about her dainty muzzle.

"Aw, come off it Mem, we all know ye were the deadliest river-beauty ever t' lay a paw on a quarterstaff in yore day." Rock interjected, holding out his big bowl expectantly.

"Aye. Well….that was back in the day." She said, but a smile hovered about her face as she ladled out wooden bowls of otters' infamous hotroot soup. "Now, Zorriah, after we're done with this lot, you think ye could tickle us up a few dace fer supper, love?" asked Mem.

"Sure I could, Auntie Mem." Replied Zorriah with a nod. "In fact, seeing as I'm done already, I'll start off now. Won't take me tae long." She drained the bowl, cleared it with a quick lap of her tongue and stood, stepping to the doorway and fastening a dark blue cloak on. As she stepped out the door, Rock's paw on her shoulder stopped her.

"Zorriah, I want yeh to have this." He said, producing a cloth pouch. Reaching into it, he pulled a tooled, pale leather sword-belt and scabbard, well worn, yet in immaculate condition and cared for. From the scabbard he drew a dirk, pearls set in an oak wood handle, the steel of the blade honed to a deadly edge glittered in the late afternoon sunlight.

"But why give it tae me now?" she asked, puzzled as she took the dagger in her paw, feeling the balance of the superior craftsmanship, admiring the tooled leather of the belt and scabbard.

"Yore ready. Our talk made the pretty old thing come to mind." He said simply and with a smile. "The belt, it's made for a southpaw, like yerself."

"But who?" she left the unspoken question hanging in the air.

"It was -" Rock paused. "It was yore…mother's. We found it at her side when we found you."

The young vixen's sapphire eyes widened slightly as she slipped the belt around her slight waist, settling it on her hips.

"Thank you." She said quietly and disappeared into the woodland shadows with a smile and a flick of her cloud-white tail.

A few miles away in a forest clearing, a clear stream flows into a quiet pond. Entering the glade, Zorriah stopped. This late in the day wasn't the best for fishing, but she had her tricks. A smile flickered about her muzzle as she opened her traveler's pack and pulled out a loaf of sweetbread she had packed. Crumbling the bread, she scattered it across the surface. After a little less than a half hour's waiting, a large dace inquisitively nibbled at the chunks of bobbing bread and a grin twitched at the vixen's lips. _Works every time, puir daft fish. _She mused as minutes later, the big fish's swimming had slowed to the point where she could scoop it out of the water and finish it off. Emptying the remainder of the sweetbread into the bushes, she was careful to make sure she checked to see that the small bite of bread she nibbled on as she walked home was naught but normal barley loaf. _Wouldn't want the sleeping herb I used in that bread…sweet but strong._ She thought to herself, eyes twinkling.

As she approached the clearing, the unnatural silence makes her wary. Something wasn't quite right, she could feel it in her bones. Rounding the corner of the tiny footpath, she stopped, frozen first with shock and then with horror at the sight before her. The peaceful cottage she called home had been looted, almost burned to the ground. No sign of life at first, but a motion caught her eye and she rushed to where the front wall stood, now in charred pieces.

"Zorriah!" a rasping cough, then the familiar voice calls again. "Zorriah…"

"Uncle Rock!" she yelped, unbelieving as the old otter stumbled toward her, blood dripping from numerous wounds.

"Thank...the heavens…yeh weren't…here." He gasped as she caught him, setting him gently on a tree stump.

"How can ye say that? Yer hurt, I would 'ave…I would 'ave protected ye!" she cried in protest, ripping off a strip of her own cloak to soak some of the blood from his careworn face. "_Mem_, where's Aunt Memma!" she choked out, worry filling her voice as she looked around frantically, but the expression of mingled rage and grief on Rock's face quieted her more effectively than words ever could have.

"They killed her…killed her 'cause we didn't have all the vittles wot they…asked for…my Mem…my sweet Mem…" he gave a shuddering sob, suddenly unable to contain himself any longer.

"Who? Who did!" Zorriah demanded, breath jagged in her throat.

"That black fox and his band."

Zorriah's eyes hardened, her accent flaring.

"Ye'll get better! Ye'll heal Uncle Rock! I'll take care o' ye and we'll hunt him doon. We'll make him pay taegether!" she vowed resolutely, forcing back the tears in her voice and in her eyes.

He smileed at her, but the smile was weary and strained.

"Aye, that I would, me 'eart, but I…won't. Get better."

"What? What…d' ye mean? O' course ye-ye'll get better." She protested, words catching on a lump in her throat as she blinked back tears. Managing to swallow, she took a shaky breath and gazed at him, blue eyes pleading.

"Won't ye-?"

He chuckled at her youthful certainty, then gasped and clapped a paw to his side.

"Not wit' half a spear in me, missy." He said ruefully. His gaze began to wander, becoming unfocused and wavering. "Someone's…got t' stop…the likes….o' him. Stop them from…..hurting….th-….the innocents."

"Shhhh…hold on, Uncle Rock. Don' ye talk like that, noo." She reassured him, her voice stronger than she felt. "_Don' talk like that_!" Her voice became edged with desperation.

"No….. Let me rest, m'beauty. Goin' to see….my," The gravely voice rattled slightly as his speech became more labored, "…Mem…..she's waiting fer me. Can't keep…my Mem waiting…."

"No, don' leave me! Please…" the young vixen pleaded, gripping the brawny otter's callused paw, her voice holding the desperate appeal of a terrified kit's. "Ye cannae leave me, Uncle Rock!"

"Promise me….yeh'll do…good?" he asked, eyes clearing for a moment. "**Promise me.**" The words were spoken with the last ounce of force he had left in his battered body.

"Ah….ah promise." She whispered.

"That's…what I want….te hear…."he responded with a weak grin as his eyes darkened and slipped shut for the last time. "That's….my daughter…."

"_**No!**_" an anguished cry ripped from her throat, long and loud and impossibly raw with hurt. She threw her head back and a keening cry flew unbidden from her chest; the heart wrenching, yipping howl of a heartbroken fox. It was the wail of the lost soul, one so brimming with agony that the forest itself wept in silence at the sound. She felt as if the terrible noise had a life of its own, felt herself drowning in the pain and thought maybe, just maybe if she never let the sound stop it might somehow bring them back. "_No, no, no…."_ she trailed off finally, her form bent and sobbing over the body of the battle-scarred otter. "_No no no no no…" _it became an endless chorus to the setting sun, a lament that trickled, unsolicited from her lips and would not end.

Night fell over the clearing and the snow white vixen, who lay curled protectively around the body of the beloved otter, still weeping. Her crying had slowed to dry, shuddering sobs. Finally, she lifted her head, sapphire blue eyes diamond hard with resolve and glittering like two blue gems. Standing shakily, she took a deep breath of the summer night air. Everything was eerily still and she saw the world with a peculiar heightened clarity. Through her head gushed a jumbled flood of thoughts, ideas, that settled finally on the one firm thing in her shattered world. _A black fox…black fox….hunt him. Find him. __Kill him__**. Kill him. Kill him! **_

In one swift motion, the dirk leapt to her paw, the cold steel flashing in the moonlight. _I will stop every evil I find. Every cruelty prevented or avenged. Because I promised…I promised! _She lifted her muzzle once more to the sky, but this time it was a resonating battle cry that came roaring from her lungs, filled with pain, steeped with determination and tempered with hate as black as the murderer she sought.

"_**BROOOOKSIIIIIIIIIDDDEEEE!"**_

Then, in a flicker of motion, she was gone, melting like a mirage into the shadows of the trees. Though through the grasp of night, the figure of a white vixen could but barely be made out, ghostlike, gazing back into the clearing.

"_I promise…"_


	3. Verrex Nightpelt

Dawn broke over the vermin horde, morning sun staining the camp with tendrils of light red as spilt blood. In his tent, on a bed of furs, the black fox stirred. Standing silently he strapped on a belt holding a deadly looking scimitar, black wood handle inlaid with ivory, and slipped out of the tent, nearly catlike in his grace. Black cloak and night hued pelt blending with the darkness, he wandered the camp, sliding from one spot of blackness to the next, a living shadow amongst the still forms of the hordebeasts, golden eyes narrowing at each sleeping body. Turning with a quiet swish of his cloak, he made his way back to his tent, surrounded by six guards, and disappeared into the shadows.

One of the sleeping guards, a thick-chested stoat who had been snoring languidly for some time, awoke to the cold point of a blade tickling his neck. He stiffened, not daring to look up, knowing it was too late to reach for his glaive, which lay rested against a tent pole nearby.

"Pick it up." Commanded a voice, cold as ice, and dangerously quiet.

"D-d-don' 'urt me. Ya can have whatever ya want, but don'-" the guard stuttered.

"I can have whatever I want?" came the voice's reply, cutting him off, a mirthless chuckle slipping to the guard's ears.

"Y-yessir. Jes leave us be." He said shakily.

"Everything here is already mine." Replied his attacker with a voice chill as winter frost. "Get up stoat, an' stop quivering like a puddle o' frogspawn!" the voice has turned harsh in a matter of seconds. The guard froze, and looking up into the eyes of his tormenter, blanched. Standing over a head taller than the guard loomed the muscular black dog-fox, golden eyes glinting coldly as the cutting edge of his scimitar.

"S-sir…M-Master!" faltered the stoat, quivering visibly again and throwing himself down upon his stomach. "I-if I'da known it were _yew _I never woulda…" he trailed off, cowed by the ebony fox's fierce glare.

By now, most of the camp had been awakened by the stoat's yammering and had gathered to watch their leader torment the unfortunate guard.

"Aye, if you'd known, you never would've fallen asleep in the first place, _would you_?" the fox snapped.

The crowd of hordebeasts began to snicker as the hapless stoat struggled to piece together a plausible answer.

"Y-yes sire, I mean…No! N- I don' know, Master."

"Stand up!" Malice glittered in the amber eyes. "Ragear. A scimitar." He barked, eyes still fixed on the unfortunate stoat who stood quivering in the center of the gathering mass of vermin. A mangy rat with tattered ears and dull gray fur wound his way through the crowd, a scimitar in paw, which he handed to the black fox before diving back into the gathered crowd. Flinging the sword with expert accuracy so that it landed, blade point sunk in the dirt between the stoat's footpaws, the dog-fox held up a paw for silence. Turning slightly to address his audience, the black fox spoke in a ringing voice, subtle mocking in his tone.

"Now, I'm going t' let Blodrin here claim some of his honor back." He began, tone full of saccharine derision. The stoat's eyes darted about the crowd nervously like that of a hunted beast's, searching for a friendly face. A welcome expression. But among the hordebeasts there was no compassion for their fellow soldier. As the fox spoke, the stoat's eyes continued to search desperately for solace or a way to escape.

"I wouldn't have it said that Verrex Nightpelt o' the Muerte faced an unarmed beast…especially while he was sleeping _so_ nicely…" pure malicious venom filled the warlord's words and the throng muttered in bloodthirsty anticipation, cruel taunts ringing out more and more frequently as their leader hefted his blade and motioned to the guard, who had paled to a ghostly shade of white and was now trembling like a leaf on an autumn gale, to pick up his weapon. With shaking paws, the beast complied, movements mechanical with grim resolution. He was not a weak warrior; it took skill and strength to reach the fox's personal guard, but Blodrin had never been the brightest beast in the horde and today it was going to cost him dearly.

The black fox saluted his nervous opponent, who mirrored the gesture. Without further ado, the raven hued dog-fox sank to a fighter's crouch, a small, dangerous smile hovering about his fine-featured muzzle as he kissed the hilt of his scimitar.

A tense moment passed, in which the stoat and fox regarded each other, then the guard made a quick attack, parried skillfully with a flick of the warlord's blade. Frustrated, the stoat charged the fox with a bloodcurdling yell, swinging his scimitar. Before, it had been clear that the night furred fox had been playing with his victim. Sidestepping the quick attack, the fox rapped the stoat neatly on the back, between his shoulder blades with the hilt of his sword, dropping him to the ground. In the dust, the vermin guard swung his blade at the fox's legs, aiming to cut him down from below. Leaping nimbly into the air, the fox dropped back to earth. On top of the stoat's forearm. A sharp crack and a scream of pain from the stoat was enough to tell the multitude watching that his arm had been broken. Trading the scimitar to his other paw, the stoat stumbled to his feet, right arm hanging at an awkward angle, gritting his teeth in pain. This time the fox was first to attack, slashing for his adversary's left leg. Dodging out of the way, the stoat struck, his blade nicking his adversary's upper thigh. Wincing with pain, the warlord dropped to one knee on the hard packed ground. Whooping victory, the stoat hurled himself at the bowed and kneeling form of the black fox. Then in an instant, the fox straightened, whipping the scimitar out and above him. The stoat had but one moment to realize where his path would carry him. Too late. An agonized scream rang out through the vermin camp, and a hushed silence fell.

Pushing the gutted body of the stoat off him and wiping the blade of the scimitar on a clump of grass, the fox turned his golden stare on the horde. Nothing greeted him but dead silence. Nodding his head briskly, he whirled and strode back to his tent where another fox stood waiting. The dog-fox was a strapping creature, with red gold fur and mahogany brown eyes, a white diamond patch of fur marking his throat. Every line of his lithe body spoke of a warrior.

"Captain Broden."

"Sir."

"Get two of your beasts out there. Clean up that mess." He ordered, gesturing dismissively at the stoat-guard's corpse, knowing his commands would be carried out. Broden was his best.

"Aye, sir. As good as done." Replied the fox, saluting shortly, and with a flick of his white tipped brush disappeared into the sea of lean to's.

As the black fox entered his tent, sitting on a burnished tree stump that served as a chair, a rustle sounded behind him in the dark and the dog-fox's paw sprang to his scimitar's hilt.

"Masster?" a sibilant query raised from the shadows reached the fox's alert ears.

"Skarsa." Came the fox's reply, dropping his paw from his weapon.

"I watched the fight, Masster…"

"And?" the fox raised a brow in question as a muddy brown and shadowy gray weasel femme slipped from the shadows, her sinuous body hugging close to the darkness.

"You got hurt."

"Only just barely, healer." Returned the warlord curtly, eyes flickering. "I was…playing with him."

"Not alwayss wise to do with an armed beast, if I might be ssso bold, Master."

The fox only snorted in reply, but his eyes glimmered with thought as he processed her advice.

"You'll need healing, Masster." She continued tentatively.

"Yes. As you must Skarsa." He said as the weasel applied an herb compress to his wound to stop the bleeding and ward away infection.

"Why the….dissplay?" she chose her words carefully. Questioning a horde-leader was treading on dangerous ground and she knew it well.

"They're getting too lax. Too lazy. A horde not on its guard is a one bound to fail." He replied. She nodded, searching in her pouch to cloth to bind it with. "And restless. That's why I let a score o' them loose in that otter place."

"Aye, Masster," she agreed, wrapping the cut as she spoke. "But why the bout today? Why toy with him ssso?" she queried, insistant.

"They were hungry fer blood." He replied, eyes gleaming with a vicious light. "And I feed my horde."

Verrex Nightpelt was not the leader of the Muerte for nothing. Ever since he had been taken in by the horde in midwinter after the deaths of his parents, he had shown uncommon cunning and prowess as a warrior. He had quickly become the horde leader, Morsag Blackclaw's, favorite and was respected and feared by the rest of the army, and for good reason: his skill in battle as well as his explosive temper were unrivaled. Another well-hidden trait the young fox possessed was ambition. When Blackclaw was discovered dead in his tent one morning, the two fang marks of an adder in his throat, Verrex, as Captain of the Guard, was accepted readily as the natural replacement. None saw Verrex leave his tent in the dead of night to bury two needles dipped in adder's venom.

"Verrex, sir." Broden, the golden fox stood at the entrance of the tent.

"Yes, Broden." He replied, waving a paw to indicate that his captain should sit. Sending Skarsa away with a slight dip of his head, he turned his eyes to Broden, one of the few beasts who could meet the golden gaze that most found so unnerving. The two handsome dog-foxes sat, conversing.

"We'll need a replacement for the lieutenant we…lost, Verrex, sir." he said, his rough voice cautious. "I…thought it wise to come to you before appointing anybeast."

The black fox nodded, mulling over options in his head.

"How about that new dog fox…..Gorsil?"

"Oh, Aye. He's good with those throwing daggers of his. And skilled with a spear too." Broden replied.

"Good. Then we have our new lieutenant." Verrex stood and turned to leave.

"But Verrex! Sir!" Broden leaped to his paws suddenly, then slowed himself, speaking cautiously. "Gorsil may be a damn good fighter, but he's ambitions. _Too _ambitious fer my liking…" he trailed off into uneasy silence. The black fox chuckled.

"You think he is a threat to me?" he asked, voice tinged with a strangely jocular air. But Broden knew all too well the shine in the warlord's eyes: that playfully amused fire could become scorching anger in an instant.

"No, sir. He'd be no match for yeh." The golden dog-fox responded levelly and truthfully. "But I wouldn't put it past him t' try something. I'd keep my eye on that 'un, Verrex." He advised, drawing a grunt of consent from his chief.

"My appointment remains the same, Captain Broden. Fetch Lieutenant Gorsil and give him his new uniform. Dismissed." Turning his back, the ebony fox signalled the definite conclusion of their discussion.

"Aye, sir." The dog-fox bowed his head and exited the tent.

On the outskirts of the camp, a group of vermin sat around a cookfire. One, a lankily muscled dog fox with black eyes and a deep brown pelt looked up from cleaning a throwing dagger as Captain Broden and his First Officer approached.

"What's yer business here, Broden, if it's all the same ter you?" he queried in a drawling voice, watching the fox captain out of the corner of his slitted eyes. Broden struggled to keep his voice impassive when addressing this particular fox.

"**Captain** Broden, if it's all the same t' you. Lieutenant Gorsil." He spat back, each syllable of the vermin's new title uttered curtly and with barely concealed disdain, barely managing to keep the fur along the scruff of his muscular neck from rising. "Yeh've been promoted. Follow me." Gorsil nodded wordlessly and slipped his dagger into his belt along side it's twin, though a small glitter entered his narrow eyes. Spitting into the fire, he stood to follow the pine marten First Officer and fox Captain.

"Thank you, Captain." He replied snidely.

"Don't thank me: thank Nightpelt, lieutenant." Stopping, he shot a whithering glance over his shoulder at the tattoed dog-fox. "Yer not here by _my_ appointment."

They arrived outside the guard's quarters and halted. A long tent built with crows-nest style towers on each end, it hugged the ground like a great black serpent. Broden turned to the pine marten.

"Redscore. Give th' lieutenant his new uniform and then go t' the Nightpelt. Tell him…tell him the new Lieutenant's ready."

"Aye, sir." Replied the pine marten simply. "Wait here." He ordered the mud-brown fox, then turned on his heel and entered the shadows of the tent. Returning moments later, he handed the fox a bundle of dark cloth. The newly minted lieutenant unwrapped the package. Inside is a forest green tunic bearing Nightpelt's insignia: a gold diamond with a black fox-head silhouette in the center and a lieutenant's stripes on the right shoulder.

"Lieutenant." The marten addressed Gorsil before turning and slipping out of sight to report to his leader.

The noon-tide sun found Gorsil at the entrance of the Nightpelt's tent. Redscore the pine marten exited and beckoned him inside. Gorsil complied, pushing back the flaps of the tent and striding in. The darkness engulfed him like the belly of a beast, swallowing the light behind him and leaving him blind. After a minute of blinking, he regained most of his sight and peered about him. Verrex Nightpelt, Chief of the Muerte, sat waiting. Black velvet pelt blending with the shadows, his glittering golden eyes created an eerie effect in the darkened interior of the tent.

"Lieutenant Gorsil." He stated, a voice cold and hard as steel sending an involuntary shiver down the fox officer's spine before he suppressed it and cursed himself. _Lily-livered fool! _He snorted to himself mentally. _He's nothin' but a fake. Only got t'be Chief cause ol' Blackclaw up an' kicked the bucket. Nothin' but a tail-kissin' shoe in for Chief. _He smiled inwardly.

"Sir?" the mahogany dog-fox adopted the fawning tone of an awestruck kit.

"Do you know why you were called?"

"No, sir."

"There was a questioning of yer…loyalty."

Lines of sorrow and worry creased in the fox's brow.

"Why, sir? Who would say somethin' like that about me?" he asked, voice falsely earnest. Throwing a pinch of pleading desperation in for good measure, he continued. "_You_ know I'm completely loyal, sir…I serve ye with me whole heart, sir." Replied Gorsil, innocence dripping from every word he spoke.

"Good fox." Came the warlord's reply, patting him comfortingly on the shoulder with a paw and draping a forearm with muscles hard as iron across the gangly fox's shoulders. "I knew you were loyal. I should never 'ave doubted you. Dismissed Lieutenant."

"Thank ye, sir." The fox threw a smart salute and turned, eyes glittering and a malicious smirk lacing his muzzle as soon as he felt his back was safely turned.

Melting from the shadows by her master's side, Skarsa watched the fox's retreating back through the flaps of the tent.

"Masster, that sssolved nothing." She murmered in her sibilant voice. "Excuse my insolent manner of ssspeech, m'lord, but he could have easily been lying. You learned nothing of him for certain."

The golden eyes narrowed, fixed on the path the oak pelted dog-fox had walked with a confident swagger.

"No, Skarsa. That told me _everything_ I need t' know about Lieutenant Gorsil.


	4. The Resting

Two days had passed since her flight from the ruined cottage and the morning sunrise found Zorriah asleep in a small woodland clearing, over a league from what had once been her home. Blinded by tears, she had run south through Mossflower, not caring where she went so long as it was away from the horror. Away from the pain. Finally, in the dark hours of morning, she had collapsed in the clearing, exhausted and overcome by grief, and had fallen into a dreamless sleep.

She awoke with a start, the scruff of her neck prickling with an unsettling sensation that told her she was being watched. With sapphire eyes, she scanned the woodland beyond the clearing, then a slight rustle in the underbrush caused her to turn and she ducked swiftly out of instinct.

_Ssthunk!_

The arrow, flighted with woodpigeon feathers, now stuck in the tree behind her confirmed her suspicions. Without a moment's hesitation, she rolled into the thick underbrush and rose up to walk in a low crouch, her keen nose seeking, then finding. All her life, her Uncle Rock had trained her to survive alone in the wild, how to move with utter stealth, how to hide her trails. She had never thought anything of it, assuming that all woodland creatures must know such habits. Now and in a rush, she understood why: for the archer she was stalking was no vermin, but a woodlander. Rock had taught her to be invisible for her own protection. _Zorriah…ye've always known ye weren't an otter._ She squeezed her eyes shut as the memory from only days ago crowded in. _Ye've known that from the moment we found ye that winter mornin' in the clearing that ye were a fox. And foxes…foxes are…_ Zorriah shook her head, banishing the memory which was painful now for so many reasons. Dear, brave Uncle Rock! He had realized what she was only now beginning to understand: there wasn't a single woodlander who wouldn't consider her a threat upon sight. Raising her head, she froze for a moment, and, eyes narrowed in concentration as she scanned the silent woods, her gaze coming to rest upon the shadowed figure she had just scented. With a hiss of triumph, she leaped at a stooped figure hunkered down behind a tree, tackling the unsuspecting creature, who toppled under her weight with a squeal of surprise.

Pinning her would-be attacker's fore-paws to the ground, she paused. The defensive snarl she had reflexively adopted dropped from her tapered muzzle, the wary light of battle that had begun to rise in her eyes fading as she looked upon her wood-be attacker. The dormouse huddled in the leaf-litter, paws over his head, was anything but threatening now.

"Git off o' me, vermin!" he yelled, eyes squeezed shut. "Enuff o' yer sort ramblin' 'round here as it is! Dun' need any more o' yer kind!"

She stepped back, letting him free, and the mouse jumped to his paws, pulling his longbow from the ground and drawing the bow taut with an arrow. Despite his rotund form, it was clear from his steady paw that he was an experienced bow beast.

"Go on, now, fox. Git! 'fore I send on of these feathered beauties to visit her black heart." He warned from between gritted teeth. Zorriah sheathed her dagger, holding up her paws disarmingly.

"Hold, friend, please!" she pleaded, her voice soft, with her slight Northerner's lilt present as it had been ever since she had returned to find her lifelong home shattered. "I mean ye no harm."

"Huh; that's what they _all_ say fox. An' then they skin yer little ones alive in front o' ye or sell ye all fer slaves, that's what."

"Honestly. Give me a chance. I know ye'v noo reason t' help me, but I swear: I'm not like those beasts. I never have been. I attacked ye only because I was shot at first. Think on it, good sir! I had ye pinned, but I let ye up: what kind o' vermin would have let ye' go? I only seek a place t' rest for a short while."

He observed her suspiciously, black eyes locking with hers: sincere and royal blue, then sighed and returned the arrow to his quiver.

"Dunno why Ah'm doin' this. Ah know Ah'll regret it…" he muttered to himself, then addressed her. "What's yer name, vixen?"

"Zorriah Skybrush," she replied. "Zorriah...Brookside Skybrush."

"Follow me, then, Miss Skybrush." He said, bobbing off amidst the trees, paw still clutching his bow.

Zorriah sighed and followed him. She longed desperately for something familiar and something friendly. After a short jaunt, they arrived at a massive oak tree, its roots dug under to form a cleverly hidden home. The door-way meshed so effectively with the gnarled roots that only one who was looking for something different would spot it: and they would need keen eyes at that. Inside the warm, dry entry-way, the mouse hung his coat and muttered brusquely to indicate that she should do the same.

"Wood? That you?" a motherly voice from deeper within the house called. Quick, shuffling pawsteps made their way towards them.

"Yes, Millie, it is. We have a -," he paused, throwing Zorriah a quick glance. "a visitor."

A stout little mouse-wife meandered into the corridor toting a hard beech-wood rolling pin in paw.

"Bless your 'eart Dogwood, bringing another traveler in from the – _Gracious_!" she shrieked, catching sight of the vixen. "You 'orrible brute!" despite her short stature and substantial build, she moved with surprising speed, whacking Zorriah soundly on the nose with the formidable rolling pin before she could react. " _'ow_ in the name o' love did _you_ get in 'ere?"

_Whack!_

The rolling pin continued its barrage of savage blows on the beleaguered fox's upheld paws and arms.

"Vicious! _Vicious_, the lot o' ye! Mongrel! Get out, ye scum!" each angry squeal was punctuated with a sharp crack of the beechwood pin.

"Millie, Millie!" Wood's voice broke into the mouse-wife's tirade, pinning her arms to her side as she struggled. During the ruckus, three mouse younglings had poked their heads inquisitively around the corner, large dark eyes wide at the scene occurring before them.

One, a stocky male with nutmeg hued fur tip-pawed his way to Zorriah, glancing furtively about as he stood before their guest.

"'Ello Ma'am." He said, gruff voice bold. Reaching out a tentative paw, he patted her lightly on the shoulder, then started slightly as the vixen raised her head and surveyed him with startlingly blue eyes. After a moment of silence, he plucked up the courage to continue, unfazed. "My name's – "

"_**Seasons! **_**FINCH!"** shrieked the mouse-wife. In a flash, she had wrenched herself away from her mate and was pulling the young mouse away from the fox, clutching him to her ample bosom. "Get away from that – that vermin!"

"Millie, _please_! She's the guest!" pleaded Wood. "She doesn't behave like them others." He reasoned with her. "If she'd wanted t' 'urt Finch, she could've already. She 'ad the chance to 'urt me many times before we came in but never did she try a thing!"

In the tense silence that followed, Zorriah spoke up. Her voice was no longer the same as it had been just a few days ago: there was some vital innocence, some intrinsic optimism that was now lost and replaced with a deep well of hurt.

"Please, Ma'am. I only need a place tae stay. I have no home anymore…" she said softly, her eyes meeting the matronly mouse-wife's.

Something in the dormouse's eyes softened involuntarily, some barrier broken down by the young vixen's earnest words. "Y' poor dear; no 'ome t' speak of an' me carryin' on the way I…._Dogwood_! I wouldna' greeted 'er so if you'd said somethin'!" she fussed, her expression changing immediately.

"Ah tried Millie, but ye got t' beatin' 'er afore Ah could get a word in edgewise."

"Nonsense. No ye didn't." Taking the weary fox by her paw she lead her down the hallway, three young mice trailing behind curiously. This was the most excitement they'd had in their quiet young lives. "What's yer name again, love…?"

That evening, the Dogwood family welcomed the white vixen into their home.

"Where'd ye live before, Zorriah, love?" asked Millie over a desert of honeydipped oatcakes.

"Not tae far from here. About a mile or so north o' Mossflower." She replied, her tone guarded. The dormice were simple creatures, but they were not dull ones and no more questions were asked. After the meal was finished, the family gathered around an outdoor fire. The oldest mouse, a pretty silver gray maiden named Poppy, was encouraged to sing a song.

"Come on, Poppy, sing!" piped up her younger brother, poking her insistently. The youngest sucked his paw and stared at her expectantly.

"Come on Poppy. Sing us one o' yer poems!" her father called encouragingly. Finally, the shy little mouse maiden stood, took a sip of water from an acorn cap, and began to sing in a sweet, clear, soprano voice.

_The day has dawned_

_The meadowlark flies_

_O'er dew-speckled fields _

'_neath pale morning skies._

_I watch from below _

_This shady oak tree _

_And wish that the meadowlark_

_Flying was me._

During the mouse maid's song, the ivory vixen had raised her head, observing her with deep blue eyes. As Poppy turned to sit to her family's applause, the fox's gaze caught her, beckoned her over, and she moved to sit by the traveler, her eyes wide with awe. They talked quietly as Finch stood to recite a comic verse.

"Ye like music, Poppy?"

"Y-yes, Ma'am."

"Forget the 'Ma'am'. Call me Zorriah. Please." The fox replied with a slight smile.

"Yes, Zorriah."

"Ye have a pretty voice: I used tae sing too."

The silver mouse maid eyed her with open curiously.

"Used to?" she swallowed nervously as the vixen's expression darkened. Taking a deep breath, Zorriah steadied her features.

"Nevermind that." She managed shortly, then smiled. "But neighbors from a few miles north would come down t' hear me sing. They said I had a voice." She remembered with a flicker of her old innocent smile.

"Then sing somethin' for us, love." Broke in Millie's voice, and the two realized that Finch had finished and the family had heard Zorriah's last remark.

"Since I am your guest, and ye've been so kind, I must oblige." She gave a flourishing combination of a bow and curtsy, something of her old self peeping through for a moment in the playful gesture, but it was laced, as was her every word and every motion, with an ever present sadness. Clearing her throat, she breathed deeply, opened her mouth, and sang, an old Northland wanderer's ballad ringing true from her chest.

_Look tae the West_

_Ma bonny wee bairn._

_Look tae the sun that's setting._

_Follow the gold_

_Till it leads ye home_

_Or the place where tonight ye'll be resting._

_The wind it calls tae me:_

_I cannae stay long._

_I know that I'll noo be settling,_

_For here more than half a sweet season long._

_For mah wandering blood will nae hush._

_I canna stay,_

_For m' heart is bound._

_Bound tae the wind and its song._

_Summer is ending,_

_Th' green leaves will fall._

_And though mah heart aches for th' sight o' you,_

_I cannae stay, love._

_Roving, roving,_

_On I go._

_In mah blood,_

_In mah soul,_

_I may find peace there._

_In mah blood,_

_In mah soul,_

_I will find peace there._

Her voice rose and dipped, rolled and murmured. Full, rich, melodic, and with a strength rhythmic as the sea, her alto tones were pure and soft with the tune of the haunting song. The muted resonance in her throat hinted at far more power within her vocals than the song called for. A moment of silence followed before the family began to applaud.

"That was beautiful, Miss Zorriah!" exclaimed Dogwood.

"That was wonderful! I never knew vermin could sing so –"Poppy dropped the end of her sentence like a hot coal, clapping a paw to her mouth, a look of horror for her own words on her pretty face. The rest of the family stared at her in stunned silence. "Oh. Oh! I didn't –"tears welling in her eyes, the young mousemaid fled back into the roots of the oak

Zorriah picked up her worn cloak: her eyes were distant. Her dirk handle glittered in the fire light as she stood, mirroring the detached sparkle in her deep eyes, white coat a fiery, burnished copper in the flame's glow.

"I wouldn't want tae wear out mah welcome." She said, voice halting despite its slight icy edge. "I'll…sleep out here tonight. It's not tae cold and I'm fond o' the stars o'er mah head." Turning, she arranged her traveler's cloak beneath an overhanging root by the doorway, leaving no room for discussion as the family made their way back inside. Flopping down on her cape, she sighed wearily and stretched out beneath the star strewn heavens. Presently, she gazed up at the crescent moon, pearl white as her pelt. Breathing deeply, she curled up in her makeshift bed, catching the faint scent of home that still clung to the hand-woven cloak. A single tear slipped from her eye as she drifted off to sleep: a diamond amid a field snow.

Dogwood awoke the next day, early morning sun compelling him to take his walk. Rounding the corner of the tree homestead, he stopped: a sound uncommon in his parts, but clearly recognizable reached his ears easily in the morning calm of the forest: it was the faint whir of flying steel traveled through the air, ending with a dull thud. In the clearing, the snowy white fox pulled her dirk from a tree stump and stepped back a few paces. Sapphire eyes glittered, surveying the clearing wordlessly and with hawk-like intensity. The rest of her was still as a pillar of white marble as if she were waiting for something. There! The nearly inaudible flutter of a falling leaf! In a single swift motion, fluid and quick as a striking serpent, the vixen twirled, the long dagger flashing from her paw like chained lightening, and pinning the small floating russet leaf to the trunk of a rowan tree. A cool smile twitched at her muzzle as she retrieved the dirk.

"Ahem." The mouse cleared his throat and the vixen whipped about, dagger in paw, poised for a throw. Upon catching sight of Dogwood, she immediately relaxed.

"Miss Zorriah." Said Dogwood slowly. "Ah've seen beasts with good aim in my days, but never 'ave I seen one sling steel like that. Who taught ye?"

The vixen's eyes clouded for a moment and she paused, then her expression cleared and she replied in a stronger voice than he had yet heard her use. He heard for the first time, unmistakable pride in her response.

"Rock Brookside, sir. My father."

"Miss Zorriah, have ya ever considered tryin' yer paw at…archery?"

She cast him a curious glance.

"No, Dogwood. I never have." she answered slowly, slipping her dirk easily back into its sheath. "Why d' you ask?"

"You have remarkable aim, miss. I'd like te teach yeh."

"Sir, thank ye!" came her ready reply. Zorriah had never been one to turn down combat training and she wasn't about to now. Retrieving his bow and quiver from the doorframe, he motioned for her to follow. As she studied the yew bow, a lock clicked open inside her mind and loosed an unstoppable flood. She did not try and shut the door, for in an instant all her uncertainty and weariness of the night before was gone. Here was the way. Here was the way to keep the promise she had made, the promise which just moments ago had seemed to impossible to keep. She paused for a moment, then an icy glitter entered her eyes, which had been misty and blurred since she had left her home, and she followed with new purpose in her stride. Dogwood halted before a yew sapling and pulling a hatchet from his belt, proceeded to fell the young tree with practiced strokes of the blade. By the time he was done, he was out of breath.

"Blasted years are getting' te me…" he muttered under his breath. Mopping his brow with a homespun handkerchief, he turned to her, still puffing and blowing for air.

"Now…we want ter drag…this…here…sapling back te…the clearing."

She nodded wordlessly and hefted her end of the young tree with considerable ease, pulling it to the clearing behind the oak.

"Good. See the wood?" he says, tapping the piece. "Whippy: it bends, but it's durable. We want it te be flexible but it has te resist an' snap back when yeh go ter draw it."

She remained silent, but nodded her understanding.

"I'll help ye carve this'un. But learn by watchin', mind ye."

The two began to shape the new wood into a strong bow, the dormouse pausing every so often to make sure his pupil understood an important point or vital fact and Zorriah watched intently. Early the next morning, Dogwood found her sitting on a birch log, one paw angled against the protruding remainder of a branch, her back leaning against a stump of a bough, carving intricate designs on the pale wood of her new longbow, fully absorbed in the work.

"That's mighty fine handicraft, miss. What d' the symbols mean?" he queried, sitting beside her, resting a paw on one stiff knee.

Without looking up, she responded, still intent upon the finishing touches of the design.

"I'm not sure…they're what's engraved on the hilt of my dirk an' the scabbard." he made no reply, only bending to study the designs on the hilt and leather. Glancing back up to the bow, he spoke again.

"But this. Ah don' see this anywhere except on yer bow here."

He rubbed his paw lightly over the intricate design etched into the center of the bow, where two carved foxes curled about the shape of a crescent moon. They seemed to be battling one another. Or embracing. It was unclear which. A strange flicker passed through Zorriah's cobalt eyes, but faded again as quickly as it had come. It was once more by the hollow stare she had worn since the day he met her.

"I-I don't…know." she said slowly. "Just something frae mahs mind…"she trailed off. A silence followed, broken by Dogwood, who coughed and stood again.

"It looks ready fer usin'." He said, taking it from her and inspecting their craft once more, pulling at the bowstring and bending it slightly before nodding in satisfaction. "It's a right beauty yeh've got there, Miss Zorriah." He said, returning it to her. "Couldn' ask fer a better bow: ye learned right quick."

"Now…"he began, positioning the bow slowly in his paws. "Here's how ya hold it."

She imitated him and he surveyed her.

"A southpaw, eh?"

"Aye." She nodded.

"Good. Good. Now," he said, pointing to a large knot hole in a birch tree several meters away. "I want ye te draw one of the arrows we made." He directed her. "There. Now sight it, like that. An' let fly."

_Ssthunk!_

The arrow, flighted with blue jay feathers, flew from the strong yew bow, landing squarely in the knot. It was not dead center, but it was not off by much either.

"By the fur!" the mouse murmured, whistling softly. "Ah've never seen…" he shook his head, smiling as he picked up his bow and headed back towards the house.

"Wait! Where are ye going?" she asked, turning and catching him by the shoulder. Her bottomless eyes searched his face. "Did I do something wrong?" she asked.

"Miss Zorriah, you have a talent." He replied with a chuckle. "Practice why don' ye? I'll leave ye so ye can clear yer mind. If ye need me, I'll be in the house."

She turned, cold azure pools scanning the clearing as before. Her eyes settled on a pinecone hanging from a distant tree across the clearing. Again, she drew an arrow from her quiver, with considerable skill for her second time. With a twang, she loosed the arrow, missing the pinecone by less than a meter. She had neglected to account for the breeze. Once more she tried, this time aiming a trifle to the right and sent the pinecone spinning from its branch. An icy glitter of excitement entered her gaze. Arrows leapt from quiver to paw, springing from the yew bow and pinning most every target that caught her sight. She paused, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes.

"You're good."

The vixen whirled bow dropped to the ground, dagger snapping to her paw and at the ready before she caught sight of Poppy's silver gray fur. The mousemaid took a hasty step back. "I-I wanted to say sorry. Sorry about the other night." She added quickly. "I didn't mean it that way. I didn't mean it any way at all…" She stoped, looking down at her footpaws and shuffling them aimlessly.

Zorriah relaxed and turned, a bitter smile on her lips.

"I know, Poppy. I know. I'm noo the sort o' fox anyone is used tae."

The young mouse sighted, relief plainly marked on her pretty features. Zorriah's lips twitched in a smile and she spun the dirk, deftly slipping it into the leather scabbard. She noticed Poppy's eyes following the glimmer of the shining handle and the glitter of the keen blade with fascination.

"That's a pretty knife. All th' pearls in th' handle." She said shyly. The vixen smiled, drawing the long dagger and holding it in the pad of her paws.

"Tis called a dirk." She said, caressing the handle lovingly. "And, aye. It is a pretty thing…" Her gaze flicked to the mouse maid, stern and earnest. "But it's not a toy. This blade was made for killing." Poppy shivered, the cool, hard truth of the white fox's words and sapphire eyes chilling her to the bone. But the fascination was still there. "Would you like to learn t' use a dagger?"

"Y-ye would teach me?" the young dormouse asked incredulously.

"I need somethin' tae keep me busy." Chuckled the vixen, holding out her paw.

"Warrior maid to warrior maid?"

"Mhm, warrior maid te warrior maid!" came the reply, a small silver gray paw meeting that of the ivory fox.

"That's it…slow down: steady, Poppy! You'll slice your paw t' the bone if you keep going on that way."

Dogwood's curiosity led him outside to investigate the source of the voices.

_Thunk!_

"Almost! Nice throw, though." Called the vixen's voice encouragingly. The dormouse rounded the bend and was met by the sight of Poppy and Zorriah crouched together, the fox's paw firmly guiding his timid daughter. As the little mouse maid straightened, her father saw a new fluttering of confidence in her stance. The dagger arced through the air, this time hitting a roughly carved, makeshift wooden target a few meters away.

"Beautiful!" barked Zorriah, eyes flaring with excitement. Poppy turned, and giving an elated squeal, embraced the vixen, who tensed before giving her a tentative squeeze back.

"I did it! I did it!" Spotting her father, she ran to him and he swept her up in his arms, twirling her about. "Did you see me, Papa?"

"Tha's my girl!" he cheered, kissing her on the nose. She giggled and hugged him back. A painful twinge of memory flickered through Zorriah's mind and her cerulean eyes clouded over again, darkening extraordinarily for a moment with grief before she shook it off and her eyes regained the cold, flat clarity that was by now customary. Dogwood turned to Zorriah.

"Yer as patient a teacher as anyone could ever ask for." Clasping her paw, he spoke quietly, "Poppy's so quiet, Miss Zorriah. But she looks up teh you. You've helped her dream." She paused before answering, her haunted eyes flicking to the gray mouse child who sat admiring the carvings on the yew long bow, her soft hazel eyes enchanted by its intricate wood workings.

"She has heart." The vixen replied finally.

That night, over the warmth of dying embers and empty bowls of Millie's plum duff, Zorriah stood. In a quiet tone, her muted gaze sweeps the family that had accepted her into their home.

"You've all been more than kind t' me and I thank you." She says. "But it is not my place t' stay here. I'll be leaving tomorrow at sun up. Thank you all." She finishes. In the pause that follows, her words are met by the protests of the mice.

"But Miss Zorriah, we like havin' yeh here!"

"Yeh don't have to go, Zorriah!"

"No one's makin' ye leave, love! Yer more'n welcome teh stay!"

"I like havin' an adventurer with us ma'am, don't go!"

The mouse babe wailed, blinked, sucked his paw, and stared at her with wide, innocent eyes as if even he understood what the matter what.

"I have a-a job to do. We all knew this day would come…you are a wonderful family but it is time for me to go." She managed, then turned and sighed wearily, seeming much older than her seasons. "Goodbye, and thank you all." She said before turning and disappearing into the oak.

As dawn's rosy fingers kissed the clearing outside the oak tree, in the stillness of the Mossflower morning, the white vixen opened the door of the gnarled trunk of the old oak tree. Her freshly patched cloak about her shoulders, she stepped into the new sunlight. Her dirk, the ever faithful companion at her side, yew bow clasped in one paw, quiver strapped on, and a traveler's pack flung over her shoulder, she looked back as if memorizing every detail of the Dogwood family's home, etching it into her mind. As she turned a small voice broke the sweet silence of the morning.

"Zorriah…Zorriah, wait!"

The vixen paused and pivoted, her black cloak rustling about her.

"Poppy," the fox began, but the young dormouse let her get no further.

"Please, take me with you! I'll be good, I promise. And I'll help yeh fight nasty ver-I mean the evil vermin who aren't like you. I'll be quiet. I don't eat much an'…an'…" the mouse maid's words came out in a tangled rush, her hazel eyes pleading. "_Please_ let me come. I'll learn teh be a warrior like you." She finished softly.

The white fox smiled, but there was little happiness in the expression.

"There's more tae bein' a warrior than adventurin', Poppy." Zorriah replied. "I've noo been one for very long, and 'tis not somethin' Ah chose tae become. Or somethin' I'd choose if given the choice." She said, almost as though she was ashamed, her Northern accent flaring noticeablys. "Ah left home because I had noo home tae stay in. An evil fox and his band o' murderers destroyed all that was dear tae me and Ah promised mah father that Ah would nae let such evil go unpunished." She said, eyes hardening. "Ah tell ye this, Poppy, because ye deserve to know. And it is nae the life ye deserve. Use yer skills only when ye need them. Do that for me?" she pleaded, kneeling and clasping the young mouse's paw in her own.

"Please. Don't leave." The young mouse tried again, less hope in her voice now. "Who-Who'll teach me?" The vixen swept her sad eyes searchingly over Poppy's face, then reached into her pack.

"Poppy, I want you t' have this." She said firmly, pressing a small dagger into the silver mouse maiden's paw. It's lacquered handle was inlaid with flecks of smooth amber and its sharp blade was covered by a sheath of sturdy barkcloth. "This was the dagger Ah learned tae throw with. It was mine, but now I want ye t' take it. Use it well. After all, what's a warrior maiden withoot her weapon?" She said, tipping Poppy's chin up with her paw and the pretty young dormouse managed a tearful smile.

And in the serenity of the morning, the white vixen turned swiftly and with a swirl of her midnight cloak, slipped like a living shadow into the dappled light of Mossflower wood.


	5. Tracking

As the afternoon sun filtered through leafy branches a silver white vixen padded amongst the trees, the dapples flecking her ivory pelt with soft golden light. After several hours of travel, she had finally cleared the long reaching arm of Mossflower and stepped onto the path that lead south towards the famous Redwall Abbey. She set off at a brisk pace, putting in the back of her mind a prickling sensation that told her she was being watched. The task at hand demanded too much of her attention for her to focus on something her gut told her was not a threat. There! On the path ahead of her was what she had ventured into the open for. After weeks of tracking, of asking hostile woodlanders for the whereabouts of her quarry, finally she had found a trail! A chattering voice broke her scrutiny.

"Watcha lookin' for, white varmint?" she glanced up sharply in annoyance and caught sight of a small sparrow perched on a beech tree branch along the side of the path. The bird peered at her from glittering black eyes and twitched his nut brown tail feathers abruptly. So these were the eyes that had been following her, she thought.

"I'm lookin' for a black fox, little bird." She answered, her tone clipped and curt. "What d' ye want?" She expected there to be a hidden motive to the small creature's questioning, for she had grown used to hidden motives in her months of wandering since leaving Dogwood's. But the sparrow merely ruffled its feathers and replied with a shiver.

"Watcha wanna find 'im for, no-good vixen-fox? That Verrex Nightpelt bad. Bad beast. He an' his vermin-beasties. All bad-evil! Only crazy-beast look for bad-evil black-fox!" and with a flick of its wings and not one word more, it flitted off into the forest.

_Verrex Nightpelt_

The name echoed in her mind with a thousand voices clamoring as one:

_Revenge!_

Stooping once more to the trampled earth, she shook her head to clear her thoughts, and her eyes narrowed. The mingled prints of vermin in the still faintly damp earth at her paws could only mean one thing. The black dog fox and his horde had passed this way but a day ago, and the remains of small campfires and scraps of food showed that they were traveling at an easy pace. A cold smile twitched at her muzzle: clearly they were not worried about being followed.

_Think again, Verrex Nightpelt. Think again._

Straightening, the vixen turned and loped down the stretch of road in the midday sun, her determined strides swallowing the ground. The sun had set to the west, blazing crimson and gold as it disappeared behind the treetops and a cool blue twilight had set in. It was then that the white vixen scented the camp of Verrex Nightpelt and his horde. The stench of unwashed vermin, of violence and fear permeated the rich earthy scents of Mossflower long before she came upon the camp. From within the darkening shadows of the night, the vixen watched, unmoving. Her dark cloak wrapped about her slim, muscular body and concealed her snow white pelt as she surveyed the rowdy horde camp with blue eyes utterly devoid of thought or feeling. It was only late in the night, after the campfires had dimmed to little more than glowing embers in the dark, that the ivory vixen stirred from her post. A ghostly shadow among the tents, she roved the encampment. Seeming almost unsure of what to do, she decided to wander, getting a feel for the horde now that she was so close. She fought against the urge to find her enemy's tent and rush in.

_That would be madness. I'd never get in or out alive._

She thought to herself.

Looking about, she felt a momentary connection to the sleeping beasts sprawled about her. The stirring was one that confused and repulsed her. Then as quickly as it had come, the thought guttered, and like the flame of a candle in a rainstorm, died.

_These are nae mah people. They're murderer's!_

A low growl slipped from her throat. It was infuriating, how ephemeral their differences were, she thought. Nothing but her soul made her any different from these brutish beasts, nothing but her kindness and her conscience. And those things could not be seen on the face, only discovered with experience….by giving one a chance and none wanted to give her a chance. She had not met a single creature since Dogwood who had paused to ask her story before pelting her with rocks or threatening her with burning torches and knives to leave their home be! Wrapped in thought, she did not see the stoat until she tripped over him. The creature swore vehemently and sat up, rubbing his eyes. Catching a glimpse of the hooded figure untangling itself from his footpaws, unable to see her features, he gave a startled cry.

"Oy! You're not a Muerte! -Oof!" he was cut short by a quick blow to his head with the pommel of the pearl handled dirk which left him unconscious. She ran, keeping to the shadows as she made a retreat back to the safe haven of the forest. In her haste, she failed to see a rat sentry, who collided with her. The rat reached for his spear, which had fallen to the ground, but Zorriah was quicker. Instinctually and without thinking, her dirk leaped to her paw and she rammed the keen blade between his ribs. He slumped immediately and with no more than a pained gurgle. For a moment, she stared in disbelieving shock at the dying beast before her, then turned and fled into the forest.

She ran. Now knowing where she was going, she ran, branches snapping at her face and paws, stones bruising her paws. Anywhere at all, so long as it would take her away from the rat and the strange, nagging sense of kinship with the horde.

_I killed him. I killed him. He was alive and thinking and breathing and-and now he's not. I killed him. He's dead. Dead. My fault. Dead. Dead._

In the wee hours of the morning, her heaving lungs and trembling legs would allow her to run no further. She slid down the trunk of a tree, her mind churning and for no reason she could fathom, tears began to well in her eyes and her paws shook. Angrily, she blinked away her tears and steadied herself, a tangle of thoughts beginning to take root in her mind.

_Ah killed him. An' he's dead noo. But how many 'as __**he**__ killed? How many __**would**__ he 'ave murdered his whole life after if Ah had'na stopped him taenight? That doesn'a matter, Zorriah! He was still a creature with a life! Which ye took! He was a living, breathing…Scum! He was scum! But he did ye nae harm, he had a right tae live! __**No**__! He was __**scum**__! If it weren't fer his kind, Uncle Rock and Aunt Mem would still be alive! For all ye know, twas he who put the knife tae Aunt Mem! He who buried a spear in Uncle Rock! He deserved tae die. Just like the rest o' __the black hearted waste in that camp. And Ah will make certain they do. Ah'll send ever' last one tae Hellgates if it be the last thing Ah do! Ah promised!_

When she stood, it was with eyes cold and blank and blue as turquoise gems. They had all the breathtaking beauty of the priceless stones, all their hardness and were just as devoid of heart.


	6. The Specter

The next morning a scream awoke the vermin camp. It was the stoat Zorriah had knocked unconscious the night before.

"Arrgh! Scumnose's dead! I tol'jer it weren't jus' me bein' clumsy las' night when I got me 'ead hit!" he cried. "'E's been run through. An' it weren't in a paw-fight: he's not even bruised! 'E was snuck up on fer sure!"

A weasel femme glared at the babbling stoat.

"Will yew shuddup, Frink!" she spat, silencing him with a venomous glare. "Yew said yew'd 'seen the intruder', so why don' yew tell us wot they looked like. Then someone can do somethin' _yooseful_ an' go tell the Chief." She explained patronizingly, in the tone of one lecturing a dim-witted babe. A crowd of horde beasts that had gathered at the sound of Frink's shrieks leered at the stoat, snickering as the tough female weasel continued to belittled him.

"They – erm. They wos wearin' a cloak!" he stammered.

"Aye, most beasts does." replied the femme, cleaning her sharp, grimy claws carelessly as she spoke, eyes on her paws, not bothering to watch the stoat. Her indifference seemed to make him all the more nervous, and his dim eyes flicked about anxiously as he grasped for a more suitable answer.

"Ha, yew tell 'im, Ranka." Chuckled a clearly dim-witted male weasel as he sidled up to her. He began to inch his thick paw close to her shoulder. Without bothering to glance at her greasy admirer, she whipped a bony paw out, clouting him roughly on the muzzle and he yelped, rubbing his smarting nose. The entire time, Ranka's gleaming eyes never left the apprehensive stoat, who was opening his mouth as if he had something to say.

"They - they 'ad white fur. Look'd all ashy in th' night, but it were white as a ghost, sure as I'm standin' 'ere…Just like specter – disappeared like a specter." Ranka stood abruptly amid troubled murmurs from the listening hordebeasts.

"Good. That's all yew need ter tell me. So shuddup an' maker yerself yooseful now, fleabrains. But stick around. The Master might be wantin' ter speak ter yew…an' yew know well as me that it's not best ter keep 'im waiting." She stood and hefted a short, stout mace in her dirty paws. Shards of glass and stones imbedded in its head shone as they caught the light before she tucked the heavy weapon through her belt and headed for the center of camp.

Ranka reached the black tent, steeling her nerves and reminding herself of her purpose before reaching out a paw to push aside the tent flap. _Yew stan' a chance o bein' promoted, Ranka, yew yellow coward. Now git in there an' take yer chance._ A paw gripped her shoulders, spinning her about and she tensed, her paw springing to her the grip of her mace. Her tensed muscles relaxed as she faced her assailant: it was the former leader, the Fleche of her unit.

"Gorsil." She huffed irritably at being caught off guard. "By the fang! What're yew doin' 'ere?" Her face split into a snaggle toothed grin. Ranka might have been pretty – had she not been born into a band of brigands and joined up with the Muerte after her parents died. Years of malnutrition and vicious brawling had made her slight frame lean and wiry, her coffee colored fur dull and coarse and her sharp teeth chipped and yellowed.

"_Lieutenant_ Gorsil, Ranka." The wiry dog fox replied, leaning his lanky frame against a tent post, his knife belt settling about his skinny hips. The many blades fastened to it glittered.

"Lieutenant, then." She smirked. "Tell 'is Majesty I got news of an attack on a camp guard he's got rights ter know 'bout. Somethin' the lumps-o-lard back at camp're startin' t' call a ghost. A specter." She snorted derisively.

The dark pelted dog nodded and entered the tent, his confident gait melting into the darkness before he re-emerged moments later.

"He'll see yeh now." He said and motioned her into the awaiting blackness. She blinked, her eyes unaccustomed to the sudden darkness. As she tried to get her bearings, a voice emanating from the shadows made her flinch.

"State your business, Corpe Ranka."

The voice; cold, calculating, and sleek as the dark furred body it rose from, was one she knew well. But never had it addressed her, much less by her rank. It didn't matter that her rank was the lowest one possible: rank and file in the horde. The attention made her bold.

"Corpe Frink reported an attacker wot killed a sentry, sirrah. Sayed the beast 'ad white fur, yer Chiefness."she reported, her gravelly voice affecting a businesslike manner, though her motions was fawning. The amber eyes that had been watching her with a fierce gaze caught her and she stared brazenly back.

"Very well. They are alone, I presume. So they pose no threat t' us. But for your efforts," the black fox paused, shifting where he sat in the darkness and studying her face for a reaction. "you seem a strong weasel femme. And we need a replacement for Gorsil as unit leader. It is your post now. Report back t' me if there be further trouble with this loner. Dismissed, Fleche."

"Aye, honorable sir." Silence greeted her studiously sycophantic reply and she pushed her way out of the tent without further ado. "Who does 'e think 'e is! Imperious piece o' brush-tailed wormbait." She muttered angrily to Gorsil, who's eyes glittered at her words.

"Aye. That'un's gittin too big fer 'is boots." He lowered his voice further, and putting a paw about her bony shoulder, whispered conspiratorially into her ear. "B'twixt the two o' us: I could wager we'd do a better job o' running this horde **t'gether **than he ever could."

"Aye…_aye._ I'd have ter say I agree. Good ter see yah, Gorsil. Very good ter see yah."

She nodded, chuckling as she headed through the cook-fire smoke and bustle to her tent. Gorsil smiled slowly. He knew he did not need to say more to plant the seeds of mutiny in Ranka's mind. Seeds that would fuel a plot he had been turning over in his mind for days.

x x x

A new day found Zorriah a few turns ahead of the horde she was shadowing. They were traveling the path that wound south through Mossflower, clearly unafraid of making their presence known. Attempting to cover their trail in the woods had been a miserable failure, so they had returned to the path. A tight lipped smile flickered across her features. Her plan would take most of the morning and with hollow eyes, she began to sharpen stakes of pine wood and braiding a thin cord of roadside weeds and rushes, slim white paws managing her materials deftly as she worked. This routine of work was familiar to her by now. For nearly two moon cycles she had performed similar tasks, all with the same aim: to silently and unexpected take as many Muerte lives as she could and then vanish like smoke. Sometimes she set traps, other times she made her way into camp in the dead of night, leaving a trail of neatly killed corpses in her wake. She killed randomly, struck without warning, and never left any sign of her passage except her signature blue flighted arrows. The white vixen came and went like a phantom, sucking life and confidence from the camp. It had earned her a title, on spoken in fearful whispers about cook-fires as darkness fell; The Specter. _ Specter._ She said to herself, bitterness edging its way into her thoughts. She gazed at her reflection in a puddle of water. Her new black cloak swathed her slim form, its white underside creating a ghostly effect as it swirled about her. A white mask of birchwood covered her proud features, disguising her identity should anybeast catch a glimpse through the shadows created by the heavy hood of her cloak. To those who saw her, she was neither vermin nor woodlander, neither male nor female, but a creature of darkness and shadows. She turned from her own reflection.

_Aye, an' I certainly look th' part…_she thought, as she set quickly and quietly to work. By mid-morning, the path looked no different than normal, but a groove, barely noticeable to the unwary eye, cut into the hard packed ground of the path. In the unobtrusive road rut lay the thin woven cord. And in the shadows the white vixen waited. Her ears flicked upward and about until, after some time, they caught the tramp of countless footpaws approaching. _Less than before, thanks tae me…_ She thought, harsh satisfaction bleeding into her otherwise emotionless thoughts. As the horde rounded a bend in the pathway, she caught sight of a black canvas carried on poles by four burly rats: a moving sunshade that served a dual purpose. She cursed mentally. The thick canvas would guard whomever stayed within its shade. _Verrex Nightpelt himself noo doubt._ She growled angrily to herself. _Never shows 'is face…bloody coward!_ Pulling a single blue feathered arrow from her quiver in a practiced motion, she took aim, sending her mark into the black canvas, where she knew it would not be missed. Almost as one, the horde froze, staring aghast at the all too familiar arrow in the black cloth. The white vixen did not pause like her adversaries. Instead, she pulled on the end of the woven rush cord and it sprang up from the dirt, going taut as the knot it was tied into on the other side of the path strained and then gave: exactly as she had designed it to do. The knot had held down a cleverly counterweighted device hidden in the tree-line and rigged to hurl the two javelins fixed loosely at the top of its swinging arm. At the top of this javelin ballista was another rush rope, tying the next ballista down and the next….. As soon as the knot was untied, the counterweights catapulted the arm forward, loosing the javelins. The abrupt forward motion of the first arm jerked free the knot holding the second and the third and the fourth…. One pair after another of javelins flew into the teeming horde. Strangled cries of pain and shrieks of surprise brought a ghost of a bitter smile flickering to her muzzle and with a twirl of her cape and a flick of her white brush, she disappeared silently down the woodland path and out of sight.

* * *

Mornings later, the ivory vixen had traveled down the path and was now miles ahead of the recuperating vermin army. She had not waited to see how they recovered, but moved on instead, traveling the path in search of new places to lay traps. But that night's sleep had been fitful. She had awaken, drenched with sweat and her voice hoarse from yelling, from a dream in which the shadowy figure of a black fox, his features blurry and indiscernible, drank dark wine from a bone white goblet. He had turned; offered her the chalice to drink from. It was then she saw that the goblet had been fashioned from the skull of an otter and filled, not with wine, but with blood.

Restless, the vixen stood. She paced through Mossflower wood, lost in thought. The horde was days, if not half a moon cycle's travel behind her. Instead of keeping just ahead, she had traveled quickly, wasting no time. It made no sense to stay where she could be caught and she intended to give them time to relax…time to lull themselves into a false sense of comfort. And for some reason, she didn't feel like watching the aftermath of her handiwork and gloating over its demoralizing effects as she usually did. She paused by a quiet pool gathering in the roots of an oak tree. Gazing into the still waters, it took her a moment to recognize the gaunt and tired face in the reflection. The white vixen in the pool gazed back at her with blue eyes that were empty and hard: the only light in them was chilled and bitter as a winter wind. For a moment, a voice seemed to fill her head, the voice of an otter whose face materialized in her mind's eye and would not leave. _Ye are who ye've chosen t' be…_ With a hiss of frustration she blocked out the voice, shattering the image in the water with a quick blow of her paw and leaving the memory behind as she stalked away. Raising her head, she stopped as a scent reaches her nose. It was one she had learned to avoid out of posterity and had not sensed for nearly half a season, but it filled her with memories of home and a sense of belonging. The scent of woodlanders.

With a faraway look in her dulled eyes, she shouldered her pack and began to make her way towards the source of the smell. After months of life as a fugitive and assassin, her stride was smooth and light, her agile paws carrying her with an almost gliding gait across the floor of scattered leaves and moss. Almost before she was aware of it, the trees thinned and she stopped short. However, it was not the loss of cover that had made her pause dead in her tracks. Before her stood a towering structure, its massive walls reaching higher than any she had ever laid eyes on. The red sandstone glowed warm and pink in the soft morning light and the ivory fox stared in silent awe. This was the fabled Redwall Abbey of which she had heard so many tales. How many nights had she sat curled on Aunt Mem's soft lap as a kit and pleaded for another story about the legendary Martin and his mighty sword? Or of fierce Badgermum Lady Cregga? And spunky Mariel, the fox remembered her story fondly as well. Or of strong Deyna, the changeling otter babe who became Taggerung: he had been her favorite. She felt a strange, compelling urge to see within these massive walls and as she scanned the façade, her gaze caught on a small wicker gate. A few strides carried her to the small door and she tried it. Much to her dismay, it was locked. Frustrated, she jiggled the handle and growled to herself when it did not give. It had been well made and would not budge. She did not understand this unrelenting desire to see Redwall from the inside, to walk its fabled halls and enjoy its legendary hospitality, but she could not resist it. With a desperate whine she tried the door again, but still it did not open. A prickling sensation raised the fur on the back of her neck, but she paid it no heed, reaching beneath her cape to her leather scabbard. Perhaps she could cut through the lock with her dirk. She would offer to fix the door later of course, but she _had_ to get inside... A snap of a twig sounded behind her and she whirled, reaching the rest of the way to draw her dirk, but a strong paw twisted her grasp away and she felt a single blow to her skull before she crumpled, cursing herself for ignoring her instincts. _Too late_, she thought, and the world turned black.


End file.
